Step by Step/Issue 26
This is Issue #26 'of ''Step by Step. This is the second issue of '''Volume Five. Echo, Echo A bad moon was indeed on the rise, but whatever life there was had already been taken. The two of them had gone through the mess near the attic, finding it filled full of a whole lotta shit. It'd been spilling with cobwebs, home to spindly, silk-farting owners. The smell of death lurked around every corner of it, flooding out below when Hector pulled down the attic's trap door. The creaking settled, dust clouded, and Hector swore an obscenity. He stepped aside, sticking his shotgun to his chest. A handful of dust hit him split in the face, making him spit everywhere. The attic looked, smelled, and felt like it hadn't been dusted off in over forty years. He made room for Amanda to scoot through, as she clicked on a small flashlight. She held it under the opening, and what she saw wasn't pretty. The wood ceiling groaned, and she hoped it'd stay steady. Splotches of blood, still wet as she touched them, had splattered the surface. She shined the white beam of light in her hands upwards, casting aglow the grainy air. Covering her mouth, she squinted her eyes, and backed up against the wall. They were in King's second floor. Behind them, a flight of stairs leading down to the pews. "That man is too proud," said Amanda. "Too confident in himself." Hector checked out the trapdoor, hit his gun's stock against it. It was to make sure if it was safe, he wasn't taking any chances. He sniffed the air, save for the angry smell above, he smelled fire. Not like the behemoth at Summercreek, this one was one followed by laughter. The Summercreek fire had laughed at them, at him in a sense, as they sped off. He'd bring a storm of rain on that Hell one day, and show himself to it, facing its waves of embers. Laugh all they wanted with their camp fire, unlike them, Hector and Amanda had things to take care of. "Malcolm's like all the others," he said. The man was getting too worked up, and they both knew it. It was luck, or just some premeditated idea, that they'd found King's before nightfall. Amanda's flashlight blinked on and off, so she swatted it twice. It came back to life and then died. Today, a day ending with a still night, was heading for something, something special. Now this flashlight, a hunk of metal fished from a glove compartment, was fading in Amanda's hands–trying to finish this whore of a day in grand fashion. "He can do what he feels he can." Amanda's heart rose, sank, did a flip, and came back to her. She took a shallowy breath, and edged her way up the ladder, the flashlight hanging around her neck from a loose belt. This was a new line to cross, and she'd be ready for anything unsuspecting in the attic. The ladder's rails were a slithery cold, her fingers dancing on them like they were playing a piano. Amanda came to the head of the ladder, retrieving the flashlight. Hector saw her go up, throwing the twelve-gauge up before him. The attic was connected to the belfry, which was directly above the entirety. King's attic was a big roomy one; the ceiling hung low, the walls and floorboards creaked a heavy timbery groan, and then let silence take over. The attic spanned about ten feet. It was wide and humid, buzzards flew about, and Hector was sure his hand had palmed into coon droppings. The two of them had the appropriate wear, both fitted with medical masks. Most people thought of attics as dingy places, meant for coons to live in, and they were ''right. As the two of them settled in it, the light from Amanda's hand illuminated a great twirling cloud of particles in one of their grisly dance. It was revolting to think that ninety-nine point nine percent of this place was dead skin. Dust laid spread out across the walls, closing in on them. Hector scratched his head, finding himself in the glow. There was nothing to fear; if there was any person up here with a lust for flesh, they'd been a no-show. He got his things together, and advised Amanda to do as well. There wasn't anything for them up here, except the depressing dirty grey of the moldy walls and buzzards–then they heard a ''whimper. It could've been the howling winds, but it came back. Sounded human, too real to be brushed off. Amanda shot a look at her superior, stared him in his cold murderer eyes. "You got a death wish on you," Hector said. She shot him again with fierce eyes, ones that could shatter glass. The whimper came from below, in the hallway below. It didn't make sense for either of them, but Amanda still trained the light down the pull-down stairs. She held out the flashlight with her right hand as she used her left to lower herself down. She reached the bottom with a jump, and what she heard was another whimper. She walked on, crossing the ladder as Hector decided to follow her through the hall. The hall was a line of rooms, each used for each congregation, while some were offices. She shined the light in one she thought the whimpers had come from, but only saw a man's long-dead body inside. "What in God's–?" Hector started. They quickly checked each room, each with their own assortments of bloody hand prints. It was a horror show, and after ten seconds they were at the final act. Amanda stopped as she turned to the last room, and was nothing short of shocked. She heard Hector swear again, but she remained mystified. There was a woman on the floor of the last room, her intestines drawn out. She was pathetically moaning, and Amanda found pity. Had they been sooner, the woman perhaps would have lived longer, but now she was a ticking time bomb. It was surprising for her to even be alive, much less move around on the ground. Amanda made a move for the door and went it. She hadn't thought it over, but simply did it. The woman was in her thirties, her short blonde hair was drenched in her own blood. She and the woman looked at each other. Her left leg was turned to an angle. Her shoulder, where her shoulder should have been, was soaked in damp red patch. She pushed on, making her way to the woman, her flashlight beaming, until she heard Hector yell from behind and felt something cold grab her by the wrist, moaning. "Olson, stop!" Hector raced for the door, lunging, and rolled inside. He continued on, ramming the crazie in the side, and buckling them both down. The infected, one with the strength of a lumberjack, sliced through the air with his both arms. Hector looked down for a second, pressing his shotgun against his collarbone, and saw that the man was moaning from a mostly toothless mouth, or maybe it just filled with intestine and guts. He bashed the shotgun against the man's chest, keeping him leveled, until he lost his grip. The man grew closer, snapping whatever teeth he had. Hector backed away, crab-walking into a desk. The room was carpeted with a lime green color, as were the walls. Large glops of drool rolled off the man's lips. The man was up now, unsteady at first, now making his way over to Hector. Hector couldn't believe it. Amanda came up from behind the man, dropping clean on his back. They both toppled over, landing on the same desk. Both of them struggled, but then Amanda was served the upper hand. There man tore free from Amanda's grip, so she struck him on the head with her flashlight. The crazie didn't flinch, and snarled in her direction. Hector still didn't have his gun out and ready. In his dazed fear, he was trying to unstrung his shotgun, succeeding at nothing. When he finally got the gun out and ready, he held it with both hands, and fired. His ears exploded a couple times over, and he was out for the better part of it. The right side of the man's head had come right off. A side of his face turned to Amanda drooped, and then hit the carpet with a splut. The man started to walk towards her, but then fell to the desk again, the desk catching him by the chest before he hit the carpet completely, dead. There was a pause, the overall atmosphere turned gritty. When Hector spoke, he spoke muzzy. "All right, all right." He looked over the damage, seeing as he got up that the blonde woman had passed. "Not a word, not a word''.'' In a way, in a way it'll better if we keep this under wraps. I hope no one downstairs heard that blast, cause we are not going to speak to the others about what happened just now." "Not going to–''why? In God's name, ''why?" "Them knowing we aren't alone in here, is bad." She was tempted to tell him no, but there was no way she could do that. "This morning. Assuming everyone's present, we tell them in the morning." "You sound like a bright young lady," Hector said smugly. "You'll figure out what to do." Amanda observed the scene again, adjusting her mask. The place felt heavy; two dead bodies with a lot to account for. The church itself was heavy, a shell, an overcast above shit. Truth be told, she felt safer back at Summercreek. Here at King's, they were sitting ducks with murder-boy Nolan set loose and round. She'd been thinking him over, front and back like after finishing a bad book, figuring out what the hell was wrong with it. The answer was an easy one yet hard to digest–Malcolm didn't care. Her hands trembled, sweaty around the flashlight. Thunder clapped outside King's, rippling away into the expanse of night as the noise of a door opened beneath them. ---- It was a grey dawn that oozed over the zone, moisture clung to the old storage walls, seeping through the air along a breeze. As the morning had wore on and the darkness receded, the first trickle of birds smeared the sky in a stream of black. Lyle had shuffled over to the door, then took his time to glance out a window. The soft patter of water outside grew, like a rat gnawing at Lyle's living flesh. His chest wasn't much better, stung him over and over where a layer of green had taken to his chest. Had to get that checked. Small droplets of water continued to thrash, rasping on the metal sheets outside. He had heard them, just as expected. The low rumble of two voices, carried under the wind. At first he'd thought, though it was nothing more than a fool's guess, that the dead were whispering. He'd then let the door open, creak open as the two entered. One of them wore Wellington work boots, slushy with mud. The other, swearing as he'd trotted in, was a lanky man. The door shut behind them and nature soon numbed, muffled faster than when the Gulf turned a dark shade. "So?" Lyle's voice was deep, every head and corner in the room turned to him. He had a baritone that reverberated through and out. He said nothing more, a cigarette between his teeth. He chuckled to himself, thunder then billowed once across the new dawn, then a blanket of light reached into the building from the backside. "Get a move on." "Like fuck we are!" That'd been God-fearing Dennis Johnson, a man well into his thirties. He was shaky, skittish by the edges with stiff-set eyes. One look at him, which is what Lyle gave to him, told you he was a strung-out leech. It was the truth, Dennis was one who sung to the tune of Alas, Babylon. He'd hailed down from Chi-Town, known as Chicago to the liberals, and had caught himself scrambling for more digits on his paychecks. Though, now his two eyes were the color of rich dirt flecked with blackness, a deep brown of winter trees at twilight. The other man, who stood back in a lightening dawn, reached to his waistband and took out a gun, waving it at Lyle. The revolver was a glossy white, which to be clear brought out the barrel's hollowness. It was compact, and no matter how many solids it held, only one would do off with Lyle. He had the right to be scared, and scared green he was. Lyle's cigarette dangled, stuck to his dry bottom lip. His chin exploded in a burst of hotness. It'd come not in the form of a hollow-tip, but a fist. He noticed the next one too late, which sent his tongue down south. The punch glanced Lyle's face, then came back lower and gave it all. His chest cracked apart in red pain, right where it hurt. It was a hell of a shot. Derek stood straight, his demeanor slightly off-hinged. He stared down the man dead in the whites of his eyes. He was slightly, barely an inch taller. Yet, in a size-to-size game, he was no contest. Lyle clenched his fists. Here we go. "You...little..." Lyle took a weave to the side, lurching forward with each word. When he got within spitting distance, he swung. The blow fell at an angle. Lyle knew the moment he sent it. The spry, exasperating thug ducked to the side. Lyle was given no time to react, however, he was given another hit, a couple some inches below his belt. He didn't fall, and instead hit the wall. Fortunately, he was used to this. A rough-houser by night, all the blows came to him like pillowy shoulder taps. Though, with an exception, he was now starting to feel something. If this had been some other time, some other place, then his reputation would have already taken the same beating. But he wasn't, so he let those punches roll. He hadn't the smallest luck. A rock hit him in the face, then other rocks followed. He was being stoned, with each punch rearranging his guts. Then, he stood back up. He covered some more distance, then threw two fists that landed. One clenched fist struck the man in the cheek, the other crashing into Derek's neck. That, despite Lyle's best effort, did not quell the beast. Lyle swung another, and Derek ducked under that one–and returned the favor with an uppercut. Lyle doubled over, and caught himself kneebound in a rain of sawdust. For a moment he stayed that way, and then scrambled to the floor when Derek's gun got an itching to cock back. "Blast me." he said. This was to Derek Woods. The gunsmoker. Derek Woods hadn't in him to pull the trigger, and only had pulled it once before. Around three to five months before, he'd picked off a dealer with a good shot dead in the chest, and dead he became. And the months since that happened, Derek was still waiting to do it again. It'd felt good, but what felt better was the iced Bourbon he'd bought with the deceased's wallet funds. After he turned down the gun, he recounted to Lyle in the dust-riddled storage area about how he'd met up with Dennis the same day. The boy-o had been tending at a bar, and had shined him up a menu of what was in the What-The-Fuck category that day–ice cold Bourbon. Since then, according to Derek's twisted tongue, they'd laid low. Derek had shaken his head. "You can spend a lotta days over-analyzing something–trying to put the pieces together, justifying or trying to find sense out of what could've, would've, should have ''happened. Or you can just leave the pieces on the floor and move the fuck on." "I see." "You do, and you better see," Dennis said, his fingers collectively stringing down his hoodie. Derek bumped his challenger on the shoulder, turning Lyle upward so they were face-to-face. Lyle looked him up and down. "Listen, you," Derek said, forcing the man to go nose for nose with him. "I don't like you, and I don't like what you want. This was not my fight from the get-go, and I still think it's not. So, don't pull any more trick-or-treats on me, Jackson." He pushed Lyle back, standing there punching his right hand into his left. "Next time, Jackson," he said. "Next time your ass is mine." Lyle drew a breath, a damned good one. He had gotten to his feet, when all was bread and butter, and said something along the lines of, well everything. The ''only thing he hadn't spoken about was Summercreek. Dennis had egged him about it, but Lyle insisted against it. The man, who looked to have a five o'clock shadow, was concealed under his dark green hoodie. His face was all cracks, engrained by the hurt from working nine-to-five. In his eyes, mystery. Lyle felt his feet drag him away and fished for his Zippo. He reeled it out, cracked up a flame, and offered Dennis a smoke. He accepted, hesitantly, with fidgety hands. Hands that were roughed up, bumpy and lumpy. "Up the road, as I live and breathe," he said shakily, letting the cigarette light. "It's dreadful–just dreadful." He flicked the cigarette after one hit. "I've never seen anything so awful in my life. I still don't want to believe it–for God's sake." The man had a family back in Chi-Town. Here in Indiana, Dennis had a master of his own. It controlled every inch of his thoughts, body, soul, and heart. He would have to visit his master a few times a day, maybe two if the Lord was willing. It hurt to not have the "snow", especially now near Christmas. It'd been three days since his last smack of the cocaine cola, and Lyle could sense it in him. Dennis was aware; his master was making him weak and insane, but sometimes, the smallest of threads are hardest to cut. "When I die, bury me upside-down," he added, "so the world can kiss my ass." A churning, spitting groan ruffled by. Derek lurked on the other side of the room, in a loaded shower of powdery wood fibers. He slipped down near a window, curling his fingers over the blinds and stringing it down, wondering if he could trust what he was seeing: a blue shitbox of a car making fumes down the road. The car didn't stop, its taillights fluttered a burning red. Then another one, not modest though not anywhere near beshitted, came by doing better than sixty. It was a police car, no doubt about it. At some time later, Derek saw they'd come from a church. King's Christian Church, father to the Dippy's Church of Christ on the city's west side, had its parking lot warm with stragglers. The crazies, left in a turnout of spewing gasoline fumes, walked about near the church. Towards it, closing in. Derek shot a look around, making out packs of them bordering the wholeness of the church. Lyle was drawn to it, looking out the same window, so terrified about what he saw that his underslung jaw let his cigarette hit the floor. The three of them all heard the same spine-biting sound. The noise of a hundred freaks falling in lines, on the road to King's. Derek asked Lyle why he was still breathing so heavily. He wasn't. Neither was Dennis. More than one creature then snarled behind them. Issues Category:Step by Step Category:Category:Step by Step Issues Category:Issues